The Right Kind of Stupidity

I love John Steinbeck. It's an improbable love affair that has nothing to do with being introduced to his work in school or introducing him to students myself as an instructor now. Frankly, I don't know when it began. But his words squeeze truth and joy out of thin air, offering literary manna in the form of comedy and tragedy, whether written to alarm or agitate or educate or delight.

One of my first reads this summer was Douglas Wilson's book Writers to Read: Nine Names that Belong on Your Bookshelf. In it Wilson describes nine authors and their attributes that make them worthy of his recommendation, his admiration, and his desire to introduce them, on a personal level, to his audience. Writers Wilson, "If books are among our friends, we ought to apply similar standards to them that we apply to our flesh-and-blood friend. We should want to choose them wisely and well and hope that we will be the better for their companionship." He offers us, then, his favorite "friends" and the authors who have written them. 

It made me consider my own literary love affairs and why I would want anyone I know to be introduced. In that spirit, I begin with this post to attempt to share with you my relationship with Steinbeckian lyric and lore.

Steinbeck wrote a lot of stuff. A lot. Late in his career, he decided he wanted to try writing for the theater, which was far from what anyone would term his comfort zone. In an interview, he offered these thoughts: "I'm just determined I'm going to learn something about the theatre. Last time we were kicked around like dogs but I still want to do it. This shows a truly pure quality of stupidity. Just nuts. I'm so fascinated by everything about the theatre. I don't really care if the show's a flop."

John Steinbeck is the right kind of stupid, and I love him for it. Throughout his career, he tries. Just to find out. He just wants to see. See if part-time college work is for him. See if a California country boy can embrace living in New York. See if living in migratory camps and writing about it can change the American landscape. See if he can properly and accurately put his best friend Ed Ricketts into his works and have his audience be as pleased with him as Steinbeck is. Try war journalism, try breaking all the rules of writing a novel, try commentary on the past and commentary on the present and commentary on what it's like to get into a vehicle with a dog and drive across the country. 

Critics, be damned, he shouts with every swipe of the pen in a new direction. I don't write for you. 

And I am delighted by this. Reading a lesser known work of his, or one of his so-called "experiments" (which he considered such texts as Of Mice and Men and East of Eden), I can see him smirking, giddy at the attempt. There is joy in the words, in the tinkering, in the curiosity that must be satisfied. Can I do this? What will it look like? 

In Steinbeck's career, and sprinkled lightly in so many of his texts, I see his example, and it implores me: "Get out and do things, even if you'll be bad at them. Quit worrying about winning or being successful. Worry about doing. Find out. And find out for you."

Try. Experiment. Do. Wise thoughts, for sure. I can only hope to be stupid enough to dare them myself.